The Griefs Of Private Men Are Soon

Hell Strives With Grace For Conquest In My Breast. What Shall I Do To Shun The Snares Of Death?

All Live To Die, And Rise To Fall.

Religion Hides Many Mischiefs From Suspicion.

You Stars That Reigned At My Nativity, Whose Influence Hath Allotted Death And Hell.

That Perfect Bliss And Sole Felicity, The Sweet Fruition Of An Earthly Crown.